Slight Essential Things
by deemn
Summary: There is nothing simple about leaving a baby on a doorstep in Beacon Hill.
1. The Baby Factor

DISCLAIMER: Don't own, don't profit.

FML, I wrote a baby fic.

Title from _The Guitarist Tunes Up_, Frances Cornford.

* * *

The thing is that he's perfect. Not in that awkward, every-newborn-is-cute-although-squished way, but in that dark, dark eyes, cupid bow mouth way. In that ten tiny fingers, ten tiny toes way. In that fuzzy-headed, dark-haired with a cowlick way. He doesn't fuss, just nestles into her—into her breast, into her neck, whenever she cradles him. He blinks at her, and just takes her in, and he mirrors her open-mouthed admiration like they were meant for each other.

Maura panicked a little when Jane brought him in the night before, because even in August, Boston is cold at night. But Jane held him close, and Angela reswaddled him with two extra layers, and between the three of them, they managed to get some preliminary supplies and keep him monitored and safe and warm.

Truth be told, Baby Boy's ill-timed arrival was a godsend. She knows it and Jane knows it. For a good three hours last night, she just _sat_, immersed in nothingness. It was borderline catatonia and somehow, someway, Jane knew to just sit with her with a hand on her thigh and the occasional soft word to keep her tethered. Baby Boy's presence forced her out of it, forced her back into herself.

It's like every other time—there's never a moment to dwell on a trauma because the next one is right around the bend—but this time, there's a _baby_, and he's anything but a trauma because the thing is, he's perfect.

The thing is that when she calls her mother, around noon, to tell her about the things that happened with Dennis, she says "I have a baby" instead. It's not at all what she intends to lead with. She intends to lead with, "So I accidentally went to dinner with a serial killer, and he tried to cut my throat, but Jane came for me so he threw himself down an elevator shaft. I'm okay, though." In retrospect, neither seems like a particularly good choice, but she and her mother have been working on direct communication, and burying the lead would work against that. To be honest, every time she calls her mother and hears her voice—that regal, distinguished, _Constance Isles_ blend—she thinks of those horrible, horrible hours when she thought that voice was gone forever, and all her words come out in a rush.

So she starts with "I have a baby."

The thing is that her mother, with a casual dryness that Maura never sees coming, responds with, "Well, that was fast. Jane's, I presume?"

Once Maura stops choking on air and once her mother realizes that she _isn't_ joking, things go quickly. Mother has always been good at the action side of things, and within thirty minutes, both she and Father are booked on a plane to Boston for the end of the week and she's set up meetings with the Art department at Harvard to offer an advanced seminar for the upcoming semester. And then, for a brief and beautiful few minutes, Maura gets to talk about Baby Boy, and she does. "_Maman_, he's beautiful, you have to see him—all dark hair, dark eyes, dark lashes, _como i putti_."

Somehow it turns into Mother reminiscing about baby Maura, and how they were all convinced that she wouldn't have eyebrows, and how her first word was _shoe_. "Your father was mortified to see the effects of nurture up close."

When the talk finally turns to Dennis, there's an edge of frenzy to her mother's voice. "I'm all right," Maura assures her.

"Jane came for you?"

"Yes." She wants to add _always_ but somehow, it feels redundant.

"Bless her." And then, and then, and then: "I love you. And I'm terribly proud of you."

By the time they hang up, Angela's been back from her cafe shift for an hour and Baby Boy is fast asleep in the bassinet. Maura doesn't quite understand how she got so lucky as to have her own mother, to have her for the first time, and to have this whole other beautiful family in her life. Angela fixes them both a light snack and tea and just talks to Maura and looks at her like she's precious all on her own, like even without Jane, she's still lovable.

Maura doesn't understand it, but she cherishes it, and it changes everything.

Jane and Frankie return to the house by 5:30, and Maura knows right away that there is _bad_, because Jane won't look at Baby Boy, and Frankie won't hold him. "Ma? Maur? Can we—can we sit and talk?"

The clatter from the kitchen sink almost brings a smile to Maura's face—_Cincinnati_, she thinks—but not quite. "Sure thing, Janie, let me just put this water on—"

"Now, Ma. Please." Frankie's voice is toneless, his usual drawl completely subsumed by—anger. That slight widening of his nostrils, the set of his brows, it's all anger.

They each take a seat around the dining table, and that's not normal. Frankie leaves a seat empty between Angela and himself, and that's not normal, either. "I talked to Cavanaugh," Jane starts, softly, and Maura can see her twisting her fingers together underneath the table. Reaching out is instinctive, slipping one hand between both of Jane's is reflex; Jane holds her gaze for an extra second and they're okay. "Little Man, he's, uh, they're ruling him a Safe Haven drop, even though this isn't a facility. But, um, since I didn't _see_ Lydia—just the car—and I can't confirm the license plate, can't prove that the bassinet was the one from her shower—I can't say it was her, for sure."

No one in this family knows what to do with their hands when there is _bad_. Angela looks around for a split second, as if to grab something just to keep herself busy. "What does that mean?"

Jane looks to Frankie, and that means they practiced this. Maura squeezes, lightly, at Jane's hands. "Well, when someone turns a kid over to an officer of the BPD, Ma—Safe Haven's all about the kid. We don't care who you are, just do the right thing by your kid, right?" None of that helps the confusion Maura feels and sees reflected on Angela's face. "So—we can't say absolutely that he's Lydia's, Ma, and we don't know who his father is, which means he's subject to all the rules of Safe Haven laws." Frankie swallows, looks down, and then something almost ugly passes over his face. When he lifts his head and meets his mother's eyes, there's anger in the corners of his mouth again. "We're supposed to turn him over to DCF, Ma. By nine tonight."

She feels her hand slip out of Jane's, feels her body sway just slightly, and then there's a cool hand on her cheek and a steadying arm at her waist. "Maur? Maura, sweetie, you just went pale. Maura?"

She tries to take a deep breath but it sticks. Jane's eyes are locked onto hers and she tries, tries, tries, to focus. "No—I'm okay. I'm sorry. No. I'm okay."

"Bullshit, Maura, you're practically blue." Jane scoots her chair a little closer, moves one hand to the middle of Maura's spine and the other to her knee. "Frankie, get her some water. Ma, you good?"

"You are not taking my grandbaby to the Cabbage Patch."

"Ma, you don't even know if he's—"

"There has to be another way."

Another way. Maura catches the phrase and clings to it, closes her eyes and follows it. "There is, isn't there?" she whispers. "Fostering."

When she opens her eyes, there's that familiar mix of frustration and admiration on Jane's face. "I don't understand it. You look like one of your corpses but the Google's still going."

Frankie puts a glass of water in her hand, waits to make sure she's got a grasp on it before going and sitting next to his mother. "Maura's right. We can agree to foster him for a minimum of six months."

Angela's shaking her head, twisting a dishcloth between her hands. "We—they can't ask us to decide this tonight!"

Jane sighs, rubs small circles on Maura's back. "If we don't give them an answer by nine, I face disciplinary action for violating Safe Haven regulations. Maura could, too. Law says 24 hours, Ma."

"Well—shouldn't we at least have Tommy here, if it's his—"

"No, Ma," Frankie says softly. "Tommy's an ex-con and he's still on parole. Unless we can prove paternity in thirty minutes, Tommy's got no link." He sighs, looks to Jane, who nods at him. "It should probably stay that way, until we know."

Angela puts her head in her hands, and when Frankie goes to comfort her, she holds out a hand, pushes at him lightly. "No. No, I need to think."

Frankie and Jane are looking at each other with expressions Maura can't read; it feels like a silent argument that Jane loses. "Ma, there's nothing to think about. We have to turn him over."

"_No_—"

"Ma. Please. Frankie lives in a studio apartment and works rotating shifts and more OT than half the homicide squad. Even if Tommy turns out to be his father—Ma, his plan is _painting houses_. He's got no money, no steady job, he alternates which utility he's gonna pay by month. You—Ma, you're 55 and gonna run around after a baby who might be your ex's bastard?" They all flinch, even Jane, when she says it.

"You could do it, Janie, you're—"

"I can't, Ma. I can't. Two nights a week, easy, I don't come home because of a case. Three times a year, I almost die. I have no regular hours, no support system for _myself_—I mean, come on, Maura's taking Jo half the week as is. I can't, and no one in their right mind would _let_ me."

"He is your _family_, Jane Rizzoli—"

"We don't even know that, Ma! For all we know, Lydia got herself knocked up by Giovanni, okay?"

Angela's voice gets louder, and Jane's whole body is tensing up, and Maura can't do anything but hold the hand on her knee and wait. "I raised you _better_ than this—you are not turning that poor baby over to a state facility just because—"

"No, hold on a second, how did this become about raising _me_ better? How 'bout your genius son who maybe knocked this broad up—"

"—It doesn't matter who his parents are, he needs us—"

"—only _now_ learning about condoms?"

Baby Boy whimpers, twice, and then wails, and everyone shuts up. With a quick squeeze to Jane's hand, Maura goes to him, leans over the bassinet and strokes the center of his palm, twice. "Baby Boy, Baby Boy, don't you worry, _cucciolo_, don't you worry about a thing," she murmurs, strokes his cheek and smiles when he turns toward the touch, quiets to an intermittent whine.

She knows how this has to go, now. She picks Baby Boy up and settles him to her shoulder, comes back to the table and stands next to Jane, looks between the two of them. "I can do it," she says, and all of Jane's anger comes roaring up again.

"_No_." Those dark, dark eyes—and Baby Boy has the same ones shining up at her—are burnt and angry, and Maura's heart hurts because, really, it's fear. Fear and confusion and helplessness, because all of a sudden Jane doesn't have a choice and nobody takes away Jane Rizzoli's _choice_. "Absolutely not."

"Yes," she counters steadily, and looks at Frankie. Same eyes, same mouth; he looks back at her and those dark, dark eyes open up with possibility.

"You are not taking on my family's _mistakes_, Maura—"

She sits, careful not to jolt Baby Boy, puts her knees right up against Jane's. Angela's got tears in her eyes and a hand over her mouth and she's nodding without meaning to. "Jane," Maura says softly, and presses a haphazard kiss to Baby Boy's ear. "Jane, he's me."

And that's the thing. Jane runs a hand over her face and looks down at Baby Boy, puts a hand on Maura's knee and the other on Baby Boy's shoulder, puts one finger in the palm of his little hand and smiles when those tiny, tiny fingers curl around hers. There's a violent ache in Maura's ribs, and Baby Boy stirs just slightly, pulls at Jane's finger. She knows why; her heartbeat's shifted to strong and desperate, fast and longing, and he feels it.

He feels them both, and that's the thing.


	2. The Daddy Factor

Work is complicated. Maura's always been devoted to her job—it's her calling, after all—but she's always had a healthy respect for the need to step away from work, every now and again. Before coming to Boston, she'd done her best to leave work at the office, to compartmentalize, and of course to do the inverse. Her personal life stayed personal, removed from her professional self. Jane kind of blew all of that up, but strangely enough, it's never bothered Maura. It made more sense, Jane's way; it feels less like having two separate personalities and more like _being_ her full, true self.

Except today, it completely and utterly sucks. Because she's got a body showing no signs of foul play, but there's no reason for any 24 year old to just drop to the ground in the middle of the Prudential Center _unless_ it's foul play. Or some mysterious, sudden-onset illness. Maura has a puzzle and she can barely pay attention to it because she keeps thinking about Baby Boy.

They've named him—temporarily, nothing they do for him really counts, yet—Luke. (Luke _Patrick_, and Maura has so many feelings about _patron saint of doctors _followed by _my father_ but none of them matter, none of them matter.) Today is Luke's first day without Maura, and she's feeling more like it's her first day without him, because it's driving her insane. It shouldn't; Angela took the day and is with him and if there's anyone in the world to take care of Luke, it's Angela.

It's driving Maura insane. It might be exhaustion, because while Luke is generally sweet and undemanding, he is a hungry baby. He is _hungry_. He cries to be fed every two hours and twenty minutes. She knows this is not unusual behavior for a newborn, but waking up every two hours and twenty minutes—that's a lie. She only had to wake up every four hours, because Jane made sure that they alternated.

Jane has been tremendous, and so full of love that it hurts to look at her when she holds Luke.

Still, disrupted sleep is disrupted sleep, and Maura steps away from the body because she doesn't trust herself to do the initial Y-incision like this. She either needs an espresso or a nap, and her office offers both possibilities. She heads into the locker room, first, changes out of her scrubs and thermals and clogs and into her slacks and blouse and heels, then slips into her office and closes the door and stops. There's an open envelope and a rather colorful chart on her coffee table, and she never leaves papers out like that.

It clicks two seconds later, and Maura drops onto her couch and lifts up the chart with a trembling hand. She puts it down almost immediately, sighs, and calls Jane. It goes straight to voicemail, which shouldn't confirm anything but does. Maura pages Susie next, finds herself pacing the length of her office when Susie comes in. "Dr. Isles?"

"Was Ja—Was Detective Rizzoli here?"

Her tone is too sharp, too nervous; Susie's entire body shifts to guarded. "Uh, yes, maybe twenty minutes ago? I gave her the DNA results she'd been waiting on… Should I not have?"

Maura takes a deep breath, reasons with herself. Jane had brought in the samples; Jane had asked for the results. "No, of course—you're fine, Susie. I just… did you see which way she went?" Susie points towards the elevators, which doesn't help anything except make Maura's decision. "Could you please return Mr. Howard to tray 8, freezer 2? I will be taking the rest of the day to deal with a personal emergency."

The fact that Susie looks at her with understanding and compassion just proves how non-compartmentalized she is. "Of course. If I see her, I'll let her know to contact you."

Maura grabs her purse and blazer and takes the elevator up to homicide and almost barrels into Frost when she comes through the door. "Whoa—Doc—where's the fire?"

He's stepped to the side to avoid colliding with her and it leaves her with a clear view of Jane's unattended desk, with her blazer still draped over the back of her chair. "I'm sorry, Barry—have you seen Jane?"

Frost's easy smile fades into apprehension. "She went down to see you thirty minutes ago. You mean she didn't—"

He's reaching for his phone already, and Maura puts a hand out to stop him, shakes her head. "No, she—I don't think she's in trouble." She hesitates, because can she tell him? Is that fair? "She—Luke's results came back."

There's a flash of understanding on Frost's face. "Who—" and he cuts himself off when Maura shakes her head. "Of course. Um—well, you came in together today, right? So she can't have gone far." She gives him a pointed look and he catches on. "Right. Rizzoli. Can't is can."

Maura tries to think. Maybe Jane's gone home to Luke. Maybe she's gone back to her apartment. Maybe she's gone for a beer at the Robber, just to clear her head. "I'm—if you see her, just tell her to call me, please?" Barry nods, and she heads down to the lobby and gets on the phone immediately.

Angela picks up the house phone with a cheery "Isles residence!" and Maura almost laughs. "He's _fine_, Maura."

"Hello, Angela. I know he is. I just—" She hesitates, tries to find a way to say it. "I just felt like checking in."

"Aren't you sweet? Bass has had his bok choy and sliced pears. And Luke is—well, he just finished another bottle—one of the little ones—and I swabbed his stump again. Are you sure I shouldn't use rubbing—"

"I'm sure, Angela. Water is sufficient on the umbilical stump; rubbing alcohol will dry him out, and until we know more about possible inherited allergies, I'd rather not expose him to too many moisturizers." She hears a gurgle over the phone and has to smile; at the security desk in the lobby, Officer Martino smiles back at her. "Actually, has Jane called you?"

It's too direct; Angela's tone shifts to slow alarm. "No… why? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Maura says quickly, and pauses on the steps of the precinct, looks up and down the street. "Nothing's wrong, just that… we might be held up. First day back, very unusual case, but we shouldn't be too late. Is that all right?"

There is much to be said for lying by omission.

"Oh, of course, honey! Me and my grandbaby will be just fine, don't you worry."

"Thanks so much, Angela. I'll call you later if anything changes, all right?" When she hangs up, she scans the street again, which is really slightly foolish. If Jane left twenty minutes ago…

"Lover's spat, Doc?"

God _damn _it. She turns around, one hand on her hip, and glares at Crowe. "Can I help you, Detective?"

He shrugs, swaggers up two steps. Two unis—she recognizes their faces from previous homicide cases but can't remember their names—flank him him. "Just passed your _girlfriend_ looking like a kicked puppy. Just wanted to make sure your _against-regs_ relationship didn't fuck up another one of our cases."

Crowe broadcasts his weakness immediately: he looks to the unis for supportive laughter. Maura smiles. "Tell me, Detective—what _is_ it about Jane that is so threatening to you? Her close rate is almost twice yours, but it's been that way for years, you must be used to it by now. She's a far superior shot, but again, that's nothing new. Is it that she's the squad's star, even though you've been in Homicide far longer? Is it the press attention? The commendations?" Crowe's nostrils flare and he won't make eye contact, but the unis behind him are trading glances. Maura leans in, just slightly, lowers the timbre of her voice. "Is it that she gets more women's numbers than you, without ever asking for one?" Crowe shifts his weight; the uni on the right snickers. Maura goes in for the kill. "Is it that she gets more _men's_?"

Crowe stiffens, looks back at the officers out of the corner of his eye. "Rizzoli's no threat," he snarls.

Maura smiles. "Whatever you say, Detective." She sidesteps him, smiles to the unis. "Good luck, officers."

For all the time that wasted, she did learn something: Jane had gone in the direction of the T. She unlocks her car and allows herself a quick second to congratulate herself—_just like cutting peritoneum—_before she powers on the Prius and pulls into traffic.

Jane's apartment is empty. Well, Jo's there, but Jane is not, and it doesn't look like she's been there since they'd stopped by early in the morning. Maura sits on the couch and Jo crawls into her lap, sprawls to get a belly rub. Maura obliges, smiles when Jo's left leg twitches happily. "Where would she go, Jo, baby?" she murmurs, and looks around the apartment again. They haven't spent time here for so long; she's forgotten how worn-in and comfortable this place is. It's loaded with memories, and she absolutely understands why Jane's taken to picking Jo up and coming to the house more nights than not.

It strikes her as she's looking at an old family portrait—and, God, even at 14 Jane's enthusiasm was infectious, even if her eyebrows needed _help_—that it's all about memories. It's always about memories. "Okay, Jo," she says, "get your stuff. We're going for a ride."

In the car, she hits the CD toggle and turns the volume up, smiles when Jo perks up in the front seat. _Throwing Copper_ is in already, and depressing rock from Jane's teenage years seems appropriate—even though it's August, even though it's sunny and balmy. She vaguely remembers how to get to Sullivan Park; when she'd gone to the Rizzoli house for dinner, pre-divorce, Frankie and Jane had dragged her to a pick-up football game and they'd gone… around the corner, down three blocks, then a right and straight towards the beach. Yes, she remembers. She also remembers Jane telling her how every Saturday, every summer, she and her father would head out at seven in the morning with a bat and a ball and get in as much practice as they could before the Little League boys took over at ten.

Miracle of miracles, it only takes fifteen minutes to get out to Revere, and when she takes the circle onto North Shore Drive, she catches the sign for the Wonderland T stop out of the corner of her eye. The GPS takes her past the park in a huge loop around to the boulevard, and when she pulls in behind the pizzeria (Bianchi's, and it makes her nauseous), she sees familiar curls and slumped shoulders on the bleachers next to the baseball diamond.

Jo sees her, too, lets out two short yelps and fidgets on the seat. Maura smiles, puts the car in park and picks Jo up, lets her run to Jane once they clear the backstop. It seems like the right thing to do; Jo scrambles onto the bleachers and Jane, laughing, scoops her up, accepts the face-licking with a smile.

"Hey." Maura says it softly, even though Jane knows she's there.

"Hey yourself. How'd you find me?" she asks.

"Jo told me where to go."

Jane snorts, sets a now-squirming Jo down on the seat below her; the dog takes a running leap off the bleachers in pursuit of a chipmunk. "Did you just lie?"

Maura smiles. "I believe I told a joke."

It works; Jane gives her that _you're just right_ smile, holds out her hand. Maura takes it, lets Jane help her up the rows to where she sits. Because she's Jane Rizzoli and she never does anything ordinary, she's sitting on the very end of the aluminum stand _in_ the foot well, facing the water. Maura chooses to sit on an actual seat plank, but faces the same way, and after only a moment Jane rests her head against Maura's thigh. "You saw 'em."

"Yes."

"Pissed I didn't wait for you?"

_Oh, Jane._ Maura places a gentle hand on her head, smooths that dark hair back. "A little."

"Couldn't."

"I know, sweetheart."

They're silent for a few moments, and then Jane lifts her left hand, jerks her thumb towards the spread of park behind them. "Used to be a pond back there. Duck pond. Tommy used to love feeding the ducks when he was little. Fat-ass would hoard bread from his sandwiches all week to come out here on Fridays." She sighs. "They drained it during that first outbreak of West Nile—back in 2000? I'd just finished up at the Academy and Frankie was prepping for the civil service exam and Tommy just got arrested for the second time. The two of us, we came down here and just started chucking shit in there, just so goddamn _pissed_. We were so _angry_ with him, and Ma was just sitting there moaning about how they were gunning for her baby and Pop was so confused and the two of us were just… we were done. It was the first time… you know that moment, when you realize there's no going back?" She feels a hitch in Jane's breathing. "Why couldn't this be Tommy, Maur?"

It's so, so easy to wrap an arm around Jane's shoulders and press a kiss to the top of her head. It's nowhere near as easy to listen to her voice shake. She just sounds so… small.

Maura should have known. She thinks that the last six months, case after case and risk after risk and Jane never once stopped to rest, to recover, to heal—she thinks that the last six months have done more damage than she ever realized. She should have realized. Their last two cases—she resists the idea of gut instinct on principle, because it's physiologically impossible, but Jane _knows_ things. Jane senses things for which there is no logical explanation. But their last two cases—Jane ignored whatever she sensed about the Finnegan brothers, misread them, whatever. And with Dennis, she went chasing down invisible traces of Hoyt. She sensed Dennis as off but she didn't listen to it all the way. And Dominic. How could Jane's infallible gut have failed her so horribly then?

Maura should have known. Jane is gifted and all of a sudden her gifts failed her, over and over again. Maura should have known. She should have been paying attention. Everything with Frank and the annulment fiasco went down when they were fighting and there's never any retread with them. And Jane was—well, maybe not fine when Frank left, but she was focused. She had to be strong for Angela, she had to show her brothers how to keep going. Jane was shaken when Frank showed up with wedding invitations and annulment papers but she kept going.

Maura should have known. Should have seen that Jane's aversion to Lydia wasn't just her typical misanthropy but a real need for distance and removal. Should have realized, when that mid-July lull ended with Lydia's insertion into their lives, that it was too deep. She should have thought about what it would mean for that small, secret, Daddy's girl part of Jane to be so completely betrayed.

But she tries. She tries now. "There is nothing wrong with continuing to love your father."

Jane swipes a hand roughly at her face, doesn't lift her head from Maura's thigh. "After everything? Maur, even you can't justify…" Her voice roughens at the end, dissolves into a choked sob.

Maura gently, gently, draws her curls behind her ear, wipes at the single tear under one dark, dark eye. "He was a man you respected and admired for thirty four years. Love bolstered by those things doesn't disappear, honey. It doesn't go away. You don't have to show him that love, especially not if it hurts you to do so, but there's nothing wrong with still loving him."

Jane lifts her head, looks up at Maura. It's not clear what she's looking for, but she finds it, puts her head back down. "We're not gonna tell them."

Maura nods. She was expecting that. Out in center field, Jo wrestles with a branched stick.

"They're… they're gonna hold it against him. Especially when things are hard. So we're not gonna tell them. Anybody. Maybe Frankie. But not Tommy, not Ma, nobody outside—nobody. And they're gonna hafta live with that."

She expected it and understands it, but part of being a best friend is pushing. "Are you sure?"

Jane presses her forehead to Maura's leg for just a second, then looks up at her again, and the intensity in those dark, dark eyes takes her aback. "They won't get that sometimes, there's a sperm donor and an incubator. They won't get that, Maur."

Jo comes sprinting back with a portion of the stick she'd been tackling, tries to make it up the bleachers with it but gets caught, twice. It's a welcome distraction, because Maura doesn't know what to do with this _ache_ in her ribs, this push to say _love_ the way she means it. "Okay," she whispers instead, and smiles. "Okay."

"You'll help me with them?"

"Of course."

"And buy me a slice of pizza?"

_This one._ But of course she grins, of course she pinches Jane's arm teasingly. "After I drove all the way out here, just for you?"

"I left my wallet at the precinct!"

Maura frowns. "Then how did you get on the T?"

Jane smirks, winks, and that ache gets stuck in Maura's throat. "Badged my way through. Official police business, and all."

This one.


	3. The Lydia Factor

Jane has eerily perfect timing when it comes to lab results. She shuffles into Maura's office about two minutes after Susie brings in the toxicology report for their latest victim. "Jane, perfect timing. Mr. Ramirez's tox screen—" and she stops, because Jane is unbalanced, visually unbalanced. She's missing something… "Where is your badge?"

Anxiety starts gnawing at her stomach as soon as Jane huffs out a sigh and drops onto the couch. "In Cavanaugh's office. With my gun."

Maura sits. The folder with the report slips out of her hand onto her keyboard. "Suspended? Wh—why?"

Jane shifts her jaw from side to side, lets it crack, refuses to make eye contact. "Frankie and I have been trying to find Lydia." It's a completely insufficient explanation, so Maura waits. "With department resources."

That anxiety gnawing at her stomach starts pulsing between her eyes.

Jane sighs, looks to the right and becomes completely and spontaneously fascinated with the autopsy photo on the wall. "Which, um, apparently makes it 'official police pursuit.' Which, uh, violates the basics of Safe Haven laws. Because we can 'incidentally discover' info about the biological parents but we cannot pursue."

Maura gapes at her.

Jane looks at the ceiling, starts twirling her thumbs around each other. "We, uh, maybe kinda sorta exposed BPD to a potential federal-level misconduct suit?"

Nope. Nope. Maura thought there were, but there are actually no words that can ever accurately capture Jane Rizzoli.

At least Jane has the "juice" to meet Maura's gaze for the last bit: "Frankie's suspended, too."

"Are you _insane?"_ Jane winces, understandably; Maura's pretty sure her voice isn't supposed to go that high. "Did you _think_, for a moment? Your mother is going to kill us all!"

"She's not gonna kill you! You didn't do anything!"

"Of course I did! I didn't _stop_ you two!"

They sit glaring at each other for a good minute before Jane's face softens, just slightly. "Just to be clear," and there's a hint of laughter behind her words, "we're both most concerned about my _mother's_ reaction?" Maura cracks first, covering her face with her hands and giggling for just a moment. Jane lets out more of a chuckle, shakes her head. "The woman's a menace, okay? Official, today, acknowledge she's a menace."

There's no way in hell that Maura will ever _admit_ anything of the sort, but she knows her face is saying enough to satisfy Jane. "How long are you both suspended for?"

"'Til Cavanaugh convinces DCF that we were acting in the capacity of biological relatives and not as police officers." Jane shrugs. "Probably a standard ten days."

"I can't believe you dragged Frankie into this."

That familiar, full-body indignation takes over Jane. "Oh, who are you, Ma?" she grumbles. "Frankie's the idiot who got us caught! Every time I ran trace programs on Lydia, I had Frost set me up in BRIC without any links to Luke's DCF file. Frankie, Dudley Do-Right over there, he searches her from _my_ computer after opening the DCF file!"

All Maura can do is shake her head. "Fine. Close the door and tell me what you have."

Jane cocks her head, frowns; those dark eyes narrow. "Why?"

She should say, _because I'm the only one not suspended right now_. Or, _I'm the ME, they can't do anything. _Or, _I'm his primary foster parent, I want to find his mother_.

She says nothing and Jane's body tenses further. "Because, see, last week, you didn't want to find her. Last week, you said he's never going back to her."

"I don't want to find her to give him back to her."

"I—Maur, you gotta explain this to me."

Her lips twitch, flicker into that nervous quarter-smile. "I went with her, for her first follow up about the gestational diabetes. I—she hadn't seen a doctor in eight years. She hadn't gone to an obstetrician at all. A friend of a friend gave her some pre-natal vitamins. She didn't know how to regulate her diet for regular pregnancy, let alone the diabetes."

Those dark, dark eyes are partially angry, partially alarmed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because you'd yell at me for paying for the appointment." Jane sighs, puts her head in her hands, and Maura finds herself getting up and going to the couch. She wants to reach out, just have one finger tether them together, but instead she sits with her hands in her lap. "She can ask for him back, did you know that? She can come back anytime during the foster care period and ask for him back."

What she's saying is getting through to Jane, she can see it from the set of her mouth. "What are you saying, Maura?"

"She can't—she can't have him, Jane. We're not giving him back to her. But if we find her, we can get her to sign direct adoption papers. We'd need a DCF representative to sign off, but—"

It's too late; Jane is up and anxious and pacing. "Whoa, Maura—_adoption? _We said guardianship, we said loving _foster_ care until we could find him a good family—"

"And what if no one wants him?" She's not supposed to shout this, she's not supposed to say this, she's not supposed to think this, but—_what if_? "What if they look at the age difference in his parents, in the socioeconomic status of his birth mother, if they think he's not_ special_ enough? What if no one wants him? What then? We keep pretending that someone's going to take him? We keep waiting around with this _threat_ of Lydia coming back for him some day? She is his biological mother, Jane, we are placeholders in the eyes of the law and I cannot give him up!"

Oh, their body language—they always speak to each other the most through physicality. Maura feels all the muscles in her body tightening up and she can't get up, can't move around the room the way Jane is, the way Jane always does when she's angry and her emotions are bigger than her body. "You think I can keep him? Shit, Maura—I'm a _cop_. What do you think I'm gonna do, put a booster seat in the cruiser, let him ride along on pursuits on Bring Your Kid to Work Day? Cops don't have families, Maura!"

That's ridiculous and she knows Jane knows it. "Plenty of cops—"

"Cops _like me_ don't have families. Cops like me don't live long enough to have families. You get it?"

It's the dumbest thing she's ever heard and it's the scariest and she has to just turn away, feels her throat getting tight.

Jane keeps talking, but it's softer, now, all the anger deflating from both of their bodies. "Jesus, Maur. Even if I could, you think that's what he deserves? Cop kid life? Single ma cop kid life? Worrying about whether his ma's actually coming home that night? You grew up with a nanny, yeah, but just one. He'd grow up with a rotating crew of teenage babysitters. He doesn't deserve that."

It clicks, then, the fundamental misunderstanding. "I'm not telling you to take him, Jane. I'm telling you that _I _want him. _I_ want Luke in my life. _I_ can't bear the idea of anyone tied to you ever feeling like I felt."

Jane manages to hold her gaze, then closes her eyes, comes and sits back down. "Maur, sweetie, please think this through," she starts, and her voice is so rough, so scared. "This will change everything. All the things you thought would happen to you, all the plans for your life you've made—he changes all of that. He changes all the possibilities for your future. He becomes your whole future. Think about this. All the traveling you want to do—all the relationships you could have—he changes all of that." Finally, finally, Jane's hand finds hers. "I want you to have the life you deserve. Okay?"

She has to look away again, because of course. This is Jane: open, overflowing heart, all these unfamiliar expressions of love. "I want _him_. I want him and I want him to have a grandmother like Angela who'll knit him blankets and spoil him crazy and who will always be happy to see him. I want him to have an Uncle Frankie who'll buy him his first comic books and a Superman onesie and explain the importance of action figures. God, Jane, I even want him to have an Uncle Tommy who'll come in like a whirlwind on game days and say all the wrong things and teach him all bad habits and love him for every one of his mistakes."

Jane is crying. Silently and neatly, but crying. Jane only ever cries for her. "I can't, Maura."

It hurts, but she can't really say she's surprised. She knows Jane, all the way through, knows all the different levels of fear choking her up right now. "I know, honey."

But Jane is shaking her head, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "No—I mean—I can't—" she takes a deep, shaky breath. "You can't do this alone, Maura."

That ache in her ribs is so solid and sharp that she wonders, briefly, if she's cracked one. "I don't want to," she admits in a whisper, and Jane puts her head in her hands.

"I don't know how to deal with this."

Maura reaches out, puts one hand to Jane's wrist, just above her watch. "I know, a child is a huge—"

"Not Luke." Jane lets out a short huff of laughter, without any mirth. "Not that I have a fucking clue how to deal with that, either."

Maura is lost. "Then what?"

It's this crazy, slow, beautiful moment. Jane drags her hands over her face, pauses with her fingers at her lips and then puts her hands down, clutches at Maura's and turns her whole upper body to look Maura straight in the eye. "I don't know how to deal with being this loved."

Maura _aches_. It is the bravest thing Jane's ever said to her and she aches for it. Everything she could say sounds insufficient and everything she wants to do is wrong. So she does the only thing left to her: carefully leans forward and presses a timid kiss to Jane's cheek, right in the hollow where her dimple hides. And then she can't help it—she is so weak—she adds another kiss at the very corner of Jane's mouth, quick and soft.

Jane turns into it. Maura doesn't know if it's out of shock or—_or_. She hovers for a second, eyes locked with Jane's, and then thinks. It's enough, and she moves back just an inch more, just enough. "Where is she?" she asks, and Jane finally looks away.

"Um—last cell GPS trace had her in Springfield."

She nods, gets up and smooths out her skirt, and goes to her computer like this is ordinary. This happens. She runs GPS traces on the biological mother of the kid she's spontaneously adopting _all the time_.

It doesn't take long to log in to the trace program on the department server, and rather than input any names or phone numbers, she types in the sim card ID number that Jane hands her scrawled on a Post-It. Nothing comes up. "Dead or off," she sighs.

Jane, standing on the other side of the desk, crosses her arms, taps her foot and chews on her lip before shaking her head and coming around to the computer. "Scoot," she orders, and Maura pushes back from the desk without question, because sometimes it's just easiest to do what Jane says. It's always more considerate to give her as much room as possible when she's typing, because even now, her outer fingers move stiffly and on a delay, and Maura knows, knows, knows, that Jane will never not be self-conscious about that.

Then she sees what Jane's done—namely called up a browser window and searched "Duckling Parade"—and she has to just gape at her. "That is not a search related to Lydia."

"Nope."

"I don't follow."

Jane turns away from the computer and leans on the edge of the desk, crossing her arms again. "We do this on one condition."

"Define 'this,' please?" It's _not_ deflection, and she hopes her voice communicates that. It's absolute confusion.

"This adoption thing." Jane scowls when she says it, and Maura relaxes, just a little. _That's_ Jane. That's solid ground. "This you-adopt-him, not-alone thing."

She lets the uncomfortably vague clarification stand. "And what is this condition?"

"Duckling Parade. Mandatory."

On the computer screen is a row of pictures of toddlers dressed in fuzzy yellow clothing. Maura's lost again. "I don't understand."

Jane holds up three fingers. "Three most important things America's gotten from Boston. One, freedom." Jane holds up her other hand to ward off the borderline irrepressible historical clarification on the tip of Maura's tongue. "Can it. Two, the Red Sox. Three, _Make Way For Ducklings_. We do this, he's in the Duckling Parade."

Maura looks back at the computer screen, then at Jane. "Are you—"

"_I_ am not in the parade. _He_ is in the parade, and _you_ are in the parade. Capiche?"

Even though Jane's eyes are warm and happy—like they haven't been for over a week, now—the set of her mouth is completely serious. "You're serious?"

And there—just a flicker of a smirk, just at that kissed corner. Maura feels heat over her cheekbones but Jane doesn't seem to notice. "I never joke about the Mallards."

* * *

_Okay y'all. I'm pretty sure I promised 10 chapters, and I had them all planned out, but after the back 4 of season 3, I'm pretty much bowing out of R&I. I'm not cool with Jane's character progression, and there's only so much queer-baiting I can stand. _

_Um, the ultimate plan for this was love, rainbows and cake. But after lots of, you know, "What the fuck are we doing?" angsty-pretty moments._

_I've got two short fics that will probably be posted at some point, but other than that, I think this is it. It's been real, and you all rock._


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